Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?
by The Wayward Angel
Summary: John removed his hand from the grave stone and opened his eyes, barely glancing over the letters that read 'Sherlock Holmes'. "I don't know how to live without you." He shrugged with a half smile on his face, sad and lonely. "I don't think I want to."


**Allie: I was bored and this happened. Really short, sorry.  
Raye: You should be ashamed. Shakespeare is rolling in his grave because of this.  
Allie: -shrugs- Oh, and apologies if any of the quotes aren't exact, I'm having to use google because my two copies of the play were somehow misplaced…that and it's two in the morning so lower your expectations.**

**Warnings: angst, suicide, character death, implied Johnlock, mangling Shakespeare (that enough to keep you from wanting to read this?)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or **_**Romeo and Juliet**_**.**

_Wherefore art thou Romeo?_

John's fingers ran along the side of his book almost reverently, a small smile on his thin lips. "Romeo and Juliet?" A deep, baritone voice sounded from across the room.

John's smile never faltered, "Yes, it's one of my favorites. My mother gave it to me when I was young."

"Ah." Sherlock replied, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"_O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?/Deny thy father and refuse thy name;/Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,/And I'll no longer be a Capulet._" John said in a soft, dreamy voice.

"'_Tis but thy name that is my enemy;/Thou art thyself, though not a Montague./What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,/Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part/Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!/What's in a name? that which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet;/So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,/Retain that dear perfection which he owes/Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,/And for that name which is no part of thee/Take all myself._" Sherlock replied from the couch, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge, looking at John with a bored expression, "Sentiment." He sniffed, but smiled.

"I think it's lovely." John replied, placing his book onto the bookshelf, "Care for a cuppa?" He asked as he walked to the kitchen, and that was the end of the conversation.

SHJW

John's jaw clenched as he patted the top of the grave reverently. It had been a month, one horrible month of loneliness and pain without his best friend. "Romeo, Romeo; wherefore art thou Romeo?" He whispered beneath his breath, closing his eyes.

A breeze ruffled past, brushing against him almost lovingly, like Sherlock was saying _'I'm right here John'. _John chuckled a little, "I don't know how to do this without you." He whispered, "I don't know how to function when you're not by my side. The experiments, the restless nights, playing the violin at two in the bloody morning…I don't know how to live without it. It…" He breathed hard through his nose, "It hurts."

John removed his hand from the grave stone and opened his eyes, barely glancing over the letters that read _'Sherlock Holmes'_. "I don't know how to live without you." He shrugged with a half smile on his face, sad and lonely. "I don't think I want to."

He turned away from the grave, "I'll be back tomorrow." He tossed over his shoulder to nothing and left.

SHJW

Three years. Three years and he just couldn't do it anymore. He hated waking up in the morning without his partner by his side. He hated going to the clinic and pretending to be happy. He hated being alive, because life without Sherlock was unbearable for John.

Nothing mattered.

Everything hurt.

Words sang in John's head, _(Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again./I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,/That almost freezes up the heat of life), _like a suicide note from Shakespeare himself.

John, lying alone in his bed, chuckled darkly. He turned his back on the windows where the morning light shone so brightly through his curtains. The light mocked the grimness of the day. Three years since Sherlock died. Three years. John felt a pain in his heart, like the stab of a dagger, and clutched at his chest desperately. He would not cry, not today, but he was in pain. He was constantly in pain.

_A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear/As will disperse itself through all the veins/That the life-weary taker may fall dead/And that the trunk may be discharged of breath/As violently as hasty powder fired/Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb._

John forced himself into a sitting position and looked at his nightstand where sat a bottle of pills prescribed to him by his therapist to help him sleep and quell the nightmares. He took them in hand and rolled them back and forth, palm to palm, "I would never wake again." He told himself, quietly, as though speaking loudly would break the severity of the moment.

'_Suicide, John?' _He could hear the deep baritone of his one love's voice in his ear and he shut his eyes tightly, fighting back tears.

"I need to see you again, Sherlock." He whispered in reply to the voice.

'_I wouldn't want you to do it.'_ The apparition of a voice sounded again.

"I didn't want you to die either." John whispered in reply once more before opening the bottle and pouring out exactly fifteen little pills into his cupped palm, "But we don't always get what we want, Sherlock." A tear broke free and traced down his cheek, "Romeo, Romeo; wherefore art thou Romeo?" He choked out before placing the pills in his mouth.

SHJW

Three years, two months, and eleven days.

Sherlock stood in front of the grave placed next to his own. He reached out a long, pale arm and ran his fingers across the name with reverence. _'John Watson'_. Sherlock felt his throat clench, "You couldn't wait just a little longer, could you, my love?" He whispered, still stroking the name, "I did it all for you."

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and breathed for a long moment, "Everything I did, I did for you." His deep, baritone voice didn't crack, "Because I loved you."

'_Sentiment is weakness.'_

'_**Not when you love someone, Sherlock.'**_

"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry." He whispered, "I should have been here, to protect you, to love you." He opened his eyes and looked up at the dark, cloudy London sky. "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" He asked, "Where are you now?" He hesitantly pulled his hand away and shoved it in his jacket pocket, turning away from the grave, and began his slow, lonely walk back to Baker Street.

_A glooming peace this morning with it brings;/The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:/Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;/Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:/For never was a story of more woe/Than this of Juliet and her Romeo._


End file.
